


To Hold Us Together

by SilverRowan



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Bruce Wayne’s A+ Parenting, Depression, Dick should really see a therapist, Eating Disorders, Fix It Fic, Flashbacks, Gen, He’s trying though, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Nightwing #93, Other, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Bonding, family fic, mental health fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26876902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRowan/pseuds/SilverRowan
Summary: Trauma was common ground when it came to Dick’s family. It wasn’t right— wasn’t fair; they were all so young, so good, they didn’t deserve to be haunted by such horrors. But the lifestyle they all chose was not an easy one.Dick’s struggling after the events of Blockbuster. His brothers will not let him suffer alone.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Catalina Flores/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson/starfire (past), Miriam Delgado/Dick Grayson, Talia al Ghul/Jason Todd (past), Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, dick Grayson/Koriand’r (implies)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 182
Collections: Batfam Big Bang 2020





	To Hold Us Together

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun doing this story for the batfam Big Bang. Big thank you to my wonderful betas @nycis @sultcnah and @just-a-little-in-over-my-head Go check them out on tumblr.
> 
> Also the wonderful @bisexualoftheblade @enbykonel @spiderman1644 did some amazing art which you can see on their tumblrs!
> 
> A big thank you to the Big Bang Mods for making this event possible.

Trauma was common ground when it came to Dick’s family. It wasn’t right— wasn’t fair; they were all so young, so good, they didn’t deserve to be haunted by such horrors. But the lifestyle they all chose was not an easy one. You don’t get to try and save Gotham night after night and walk away scar free. You don’t get to put away criminals again and again without having to constantly watch your back. You make enemies. You lose friends. Sometimes you lose yourself. That’s just how it goes and Dick had learned to accept that, albeit reluctantly. By now, he had learnt to manage the shitstorm that was his brain, quite efficiently if he did say so himself. Plaster on the signature Golden Boy smile, overcompensate for B’s lack of affection among the boys with spontaneous hugs and hair ruffles, laugh at his own bad puns and be the big brother. 

Being the big brother meant a lot of things; sometimes it meant giving Tim a comforting hug or watching movies well into the morning with Damian, or drinking hot chocolate at midnight with them both. Other times it meant breaking into the safehouse his more temperamental little brother was residing in. Now was one of those times. The clock had just struck five in the afternoon when Dick carefully slid through Jason’s living room window, making sure to bypass all the security measures he had in place— Jason could rival Bruce when it came to paranoia. Dick had only been in Jason's safehouse twice before, both times for the same reason he was there currently: to cook. It wasn’t that Jason couldn’t cook for himself, from what Dick could remember Jason had been well versed in helping Alfred cook dinner back when they were younger. Back before Jason…

Now Jason was busy, occupied, flighty. Growing up on the streets had made Jason, for lack of a better word, cautious. He had taught himself to never put down roots, never stay in one place for too long, never become dependent on anyone but himself. His way of thinking had changed slightly when he had become Robin, though he still hadn’t become dependent on others. (Dick had been far too aware of the way Jason hoarded food that he thought no one would notice missing or the way he would stash what Dick could only assume were “getaway’’ bags around the manor). Maybe comfortable was a better way to describe him? Trusting maybe too, if only in the loosest sense of the word. But that time had been fleeting and Jason… well he was back now, just more paranoid, more vigilant, more damaged.

And Dick couldn’t blame him one bit. The result was that Jason tended to fall short in the “self-care” department; he lived off a concerning mix of cheap alcohol and ready meals. His safehouse held little to no personal touches; a tatty couch, a rug that looked liked it had once been silky and blue when the original owner purchased it but was now ragged and a greyish colour, a cracked and stained coffee table, the bare minimum required to have a functioning kitchen and a temperamental television. Dick had only seen the conjoined kitchen and living room but he imagined the rest of the house was much of the same. To Jason, Dick was sure, it was convenient— but to Dick it just looked sad. 

So Dick came round to cook. It was his way of playing brother to Jason, his way of extending an olive branch, so to say. Honestly he’d prefer it to be different; Dick would rather Jason trusted him, would rather give him advice and company and comfort. Jason would never let him. Violence was a language Jason spoke fluently, physical and verbal. Support? Trust? Bonding? Less so. Talking about the things they’ve both faced was like walking through a minefield and Dick was sure it was he who wouldn’t survive the interaction. Cooking was easy, it made him happy, allowed him to convince himself that Jason was doing okay, and that Dick was helping, in some way or another. It was safe.

His mother had taught him to cook when he was younger, she would tell him how her mother had taught her and how her mother had been taught by her mother before that. She would tell him how the food they cooked was the food of her people, of _his_ people. Cooking had always been a communal event, all the people at Haly’s Circus would help and then they’d sit together and eat. Sometimes there would be singing and dancing, Dick could remember trying to copy the contortionists, much to everyone’s amusement. There would always be laughter, always be joy. There would always be people.

Dick couldn’t remember the last time he had cooked for a group of people. Dick couldn’t remember the last time he had even really been around a group of people. 

He’d lost touch with nearly everyone he had once considered a friend, considered _family._ Life had gotten in the way. It happens, it happens a lot more when you're a vigilante with a full time day job. And then on top of that the whole thing with Blockbuster and Catal— _Tarantula._

_Mi amor_

_Poison._

_No._

Breathe. Stay focused and breathe. Stir the Goulash. Breathe.

_Rain pounding on a rooftop. Raindrops dripping down his face, washing away specks of blood. A gunshot._

_Step out the way_

_He moved_

_A body hitting the ground. Cold seeping into his bones, invading his mind. A poison surrounding him, lashing out at anyone close by. Don’t touch. Don’t let her touch. Don't poison her._

_Mi amor_

Breathe _._

Stir the Goulash.

A click. The heavy weight of a gun pressed against the back of his head froze Dick to the spot. He hadn’t been paying attention, had let his thoughts get away from him, he hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t been focused and now he had a gun pointed at him and no way to escape. Bruce would be so disappointed in him, ashamed at how Dick had failed to do the simple task of keeping his guard up; just another way Dick had let Bruce down, he was doing that a lot recently. 

A familiar sigh, that more resembled a growl, put Dick at ease, his shoulders slumping as he inhaled deeply and he continued stirring the food.

“What the fuck, Dickhead?” 

The gun was removed from the back of his head and carelessly tossed onto the kitchen island along with some of Jason’s other gear and helmet. Dick turned off the heat as Jason stomped his way over to the fridge, pulling out a beer. He was silent as he cracked the bottle open, leaning up against the kitchen counter next to where Dick stood in front of the stove. Dick was tense, the silence between them continued and it took Dick a moment to realise Jason was most likely waiting for an explanation as to why the hell Dick was in his apartment. 

Dick wasn’t really in the mood for explaining.

“You hungry? I made goulash, you seemed to like that the last time I was here.” Dick’s tone was casual, but inside he was praying Jason ignored Dick’s very obvious avoidance.

Grunting in response, Jason pushed off the counter and rooted around in the cupboards until he found two bowls, passing them to Dick without a word of acknowledgement before heading for the sofa, drink in hand. Dick served the stew, making a mental note to put the rest in containers so Jason could have them at a later date. Rifling through the drawers, Dick grabbed two spoons before heading over to where Jason was lounging, passing the bowl over without a world. They ate in a more relaxed silence, neither of them really watching whatever sports show Jason had put on— simple background noise. 

“What are you doing here, Dick?” There was an edge of tiredness to Jason’s voice and Dick actually took in his younger brother's appearance. He looked so tired. Dick could relate.

He was just so tired.

“Just checking in on my little brother. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you,” Dick replied, forcing his voice to be upbeat and friendly.

“From what Tim’s told me, it been a while since anyone’s heard from _you.”_

Shit.

“I didn’t know you and Tim were on speaking terms.” It was painfully obvious Dick was dodging around replying without giving an actual response to what Jason had said, but he was not prepared for that right now. The whole reason he was here was to— was to _cook._ Not talk about feelings or experiences or bad coping habits. “That’s good. Glad you’ve moved past the trying to kill him stage.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Dick winced. He spared a glance to Jason who had gone very still, his expression soured. When he replied, his voice had the oh so common edge to it; the one that just screamed “ _Danger! Approach with caution”._

“He drops by now and then. Keeps me updated.” Dick could feel himself tensing with what was to come. He didn’t want to talk, he didn’t need to. “He’s worried about you.”

“He doesn’t need to be.” Dick said, voice cold and closed off. He was fine, everything was fine, this was fine— well actually it wasn’t because Jason was obviously pissed and even though it had been a while since he had physically lashed out at any of them, Jason wasn’t exactly known for being predictable. And maybe that wasn’t fair to Jason; he wasn't some wild animal, Dick trusted him, trusted him with his life. But then it was always the people you trusted, the ones you never expected, that hurt you. That broken trust, that betrayal…

_He should have known._

_That’s what they all said— the Titans, Kori. He should have known it was an imposter, should have known something was wrong. He’d been too consumed in the heat. Consumed by the rough kisses and soft sheets and flowing hair and that heat that Dick had only ever known to belong to Kori._

_He loved Kori, would never hurt her, would never…_

_He’d cheated. Plain and simple. It hadn't been Kori. One moment it was unnaturally green eyes and flaming orange hair and warmth and then…_

_And then it was wrong. Just all wrong. It hadn't been Kori, it had been Mirage— Miriam._

_He hadn't realised. Couldn’t tell the difference. He’d broken Kori’s trust, had betrayed her in the worst way possible._

_He had loved her._

_He should have known._

_How could he not have known?_

“Dick? Dickie? You back?”

It had happened again. Memories coming back to haunt him. He thought he’d gotten better at coping with them, thought he’d moved past flashback by now.

Apparently not.

“Sorry,” Dick muttered, staring determinedly at the nearly empty bowl he was holding in a deathgrip and not at Jason, who was crouched in front of him, a look of concern plastered on his rugged features. 

Dick watched as Jason pried his fingers off the bowl with a gentleness surprising for someone of his size and manner, placing it on the coffee table behind him. There was an awkward moment of neither of them knowing what to do before Jason returned to the couch beside Dick.

“You’re a mess, Dickiebird,” Jason said softly, no malice in his voice just...exhaustion. 

“You and me, both, Jay,” Dick replied, a small smile playing on his lips. 

“I find it therapeutic to blame it on Bruce, you should give it try.”

It was said with humour, but Dick couldn’t help thinking that when it came to the two of them, it always led back to something to do with Bruce.

“Perhaps. Don’t think I see enough of him these days though to put it all on him.”

It sounded bitter, Dick could tell, especially coming from him— happy-go-lucky Dickie is meant to make a pun and laugh off the situation, he’s not meant to care, not meant to feel anything but joyous. 

Jason made an irritated noise; Bruce was always such a touchy subject these days. 

“He should have called, you know I’m not one to make excuses for the bastard. He should have checked in, we all should have especially after…” Jason trailed off, giving the distinct impression that he’d accidentally said more than he was meant to. 

“After what?” Dick found himself snapping without meaning to. He knew the answer already but the fear that Jason knew, that they _all_ knew made his stomach churn.

“Don’t be like that! You thought we wouldn’t find out? Your apartment gets blown up, the circus gets burnt down and you try and turn yourself in for murder. You really think none of us would have noticed?” Jason growls, making Dick’s blood run cold. “Come on Dickie, I know family is a loose term when it comes to the group of us but I’d like to think we show that we care at least enough for you to expect us to give a fuck about all of that.”

Dick had misjudged, majorly. He _hadn’t_ expected them to care, or more accurately, hadn't expected them to care enough to notice. Things had been so busy in Gotham with the gang wars and such and Dick hadn’t wanted to involve them in the Blockbuster mess. He couldn’t risk putting his family in any more danger, he’d already ruined so many lives as it was.

Dick’s heart was pounding in his chest, his stomach was in knots, some small part of him was vaguely worried he was going to be sick. _Jason knows! They all know. They all know how much you screwed up, how much you failed._ It felt like the Mirage incident all over again but this time it wasn’t his friends who were going to hate but his family, his little brothers, his _dad._ How would Bruce ever forgive him? _They know, they know everything._

But did they? The logical part of Dick’s brain cut in, halting his internal panic. They might know about Blockbuster and maybe Bruce wouldn’t forgive Dick for killing him but Jason would. Jason had killed before, he’d understand and perhaps Damian would too. Tim could be swayed, if he understood what happened, if Dick explained _why._ And they couldn’t know about Tarantula, there was no way they could have found out what Dick let her do.

“I think I should go,” Dick said quietly, beginning to stand.

“Sit down,” Jason growled, grabbing Dick’s arm and yanking him back down harshly. “Look I know I’m not exactly the best person to talk about emotions with, but out of everywhere you could have gone, you came here. We thought— me and Tim that is— maybe you were waiting for things to quieten down a bit before you said anything, you always were one to put everyone else first but then you went MIA for months. No one’s heard a thing from you and Tim said we should just wait until you were ready to talk but Tim’s full of bull most of the time and I’ve come to realise you’re never going to be ready to talk. You're always there to lend an ear, always hounding me to ‘talk about my feelings’, always on Damians case about ‘using his words’ but you’re a bloody hypocrite, Dick.”

“Get to the point Jason,” Dick sighed. The fight, the panic, it all had evaporated from Dick’s body and he was left feeling empty and exhausted. 

“I'm trying to say that I’m here, right now, so you can talk. I’m here and understand, alright?”

“You don't.” There was no malice in Dick’s voice, there was no reason for it. No one understood, that was just a fact Dick had come to accept.

“Make me then!” Jason was close to yelling and it just made Dick feel all the more guilty.

“I can’t,” Dick pleaded. He couldn’t talk about this, couldn’t explain, he just couldn't. 

“You think I’m one to judge? Really? Considering everything I’ve done, everyone I’ve killed? I get it, okay? You’re blaming yourself for Blockbuster's death and scared that Daddy Bats is gonna hate you forever. So you came to me because out of everyone in this fucked up family, I have the least room to judge you.” Jason took a deep breath, collecting himself. When he spoke again his voice had a far more gentle edge to it. “You didn’t kill him Dickie, Tarantula did.”

“I let her. I stepped out of the way.”

“Not the same thing as pulling the trigger, trust me, I would know.”

“I was meant to be mentoring her and I let her kill someone. I failed her.”

“She is a grown woman Dick, you’re not responsible for her decisions, she is.”

“I wanted him dead.” The words tasted bitter on Dick’s tongue, the shame deeply rooted in his gut.

“Wanting and acting on that want are two different things. And no one blames you for wanting that anyway. The man was destroying your life, it’s obvious he knew your identity, he was never going to stop. It’s okay to want him gone because of that.”

There was a pause as Dick worked up the courage to speak. 

”I’m glad he’s dead.” He admitted timidly.

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Bruce would disagree.”

“Fuck Bruce.” Jason said with such conviction that Dick couldn’t help a small smile. Jason was always brave enough to speak his mind. Maybe that’s why Dick had decided to come to him.

“Desmond’s death isn’t what’s got me so screwed up. It’s part of it, but not the main reason, not really.” Dick hadn’t meant to say that but he was surprised to find he didn’t regret his words either. He needed to talk about it, it had been long enough and he could trust Jason. Jason wouldn’t judge him.

“What is then?”

“What happened afterwards.”

He’d caught Jason off guard, that much was clear by the way his brow furrowed and his mouth clamped shut. His leg was bouncing up and down rapidly— something it had always done when Jason was a kid and he was stressed or deep in thought. 

“What happened, Dick?” Jason asked cautiously, uncertainty clear in the way his eyes darted up to meet Dick’s before flickering back to the dirty wall opposite them,

“I slept with Catalina—Tarantula, that is.” He still couldn’t say the word, couldn’t quite admit what had really happened.

“I- you’ve lost me Dickie.”

The way Jason’s leg picked up pace and he started rapping his fist on his knee in time with it suggested to Dick that actually he hadn’t confused Jason like he said— that actually Jason had a good idea what Dick was insinuating. Still, Dick found he couldn’t stop himself from continuing, a wry smile plastered on his face all the while.

“After she shot him, I went into shock. I couldn’t believe it had happened and there was just so much blood. It was all over me, all over my hands— it was all I could see. Catalina took me up to the roof. I don’t remember how we got there, one moment Desmond’s body was staring at me, the next we’re on the roof in the pouring rain.”

“You were dissociating,” Jason cut in quietly, clearly knowing where the story was going. Still Dick continued.

“Yes, that makes sense.” Dick wasn’t really aware of where he was as he went on. “She pushed me down, got on top of me. I didn’t understand, didn’t want her anywhere near, I was so scared I’d poison her like I poison everything else. She didn’t listen, didn’t pay attention. Just kept telling me everything was okay. Then she just… took what she wanted and left. Left me on the roof in the pouring rain, covered in another man's blood and unresponsive. The rain had stopped by the time I came back to myself.”

Finally admitting what had happened didn’t feel as good as Dick had expected. A weight had been lifted that was for sure, but he’d carried it around for so long and now he felt he might just float away without. The knowledge that no one knew his shame had kept him grounded and now Jason knew and he was… Jason was silent. Dick had expected yelling, anger, maybe disgust. But Jason just looked resigned, and that tiredness in his eyes was back full force.

“Jay?”

“I’m going to kill her.” The way Jason said made Dick’s blood run cold. He was deceptively calm and that was alarming in itself; Jason didn’t do calm, he was brash and angry and _loud._ The way he said it was like it was set in stone.

Dick couldn’t let Jason do this, he couldn’t have anyone else die because of him. Catalina was his responsibility— he had already failed her once, he could not be the reason for her death as well. 

“You can’t Jay!”

“I can Dick. She hurt you, hurt you in the worst way possible. She took advantage of you when you were vulnerable. Jesus Christ, she _raped_ you! She has to face the consequences of that.” Dick couldn’t help the wince at Jason’s use of that word, despite how far Dick had come in admitting to himself what had happened, he still couldn’t bring himself to use that word. It was too bold, too shameful, too terrifying. He was meant to be a hero not a victim.

“If you kill her I’ll never forgive you. What she did was wrong and- and I feel like there is a part of me that wants her gone, but I can’t handle anymore guilt. You have to understand that Jay. And I’m meant to be your big brother, I don’t want blood on your hands because of me.”

A beat and then a quiet sigh.

“Okay.”

Dick wasn’t sure he had heard right. Had Jason really given in so easily? 

“Jay?”

“Dick I get it, I was being hypocritical. I understand.” Jason wouldn’t make eye contact and he was so tense that it had to be painful. Dick’s blood had turned to ice and all the air had seemingly been sucked out of the room, suffocating him.

Jason couldn’t mean…? He couldn’t. Surely he couldn’t?

But…

“When?” Dick couldn’t help the way his voice cracked.

“After I died, when I was with the League of Assassins. I was still suffering from brain damage at the time— a shitty side effect of getting your head caved in by a crowbar. I don’t really remember it, but… I remember enough.”

Dick was pretty sure his whole world had just crumbled around him— it was like his parents all over again except this time he was falling too but was still just as helpless. _His little brother!_ His little brother had been hurt in the worst way imaginable, in the most soul-crushing way, at a time when he couldn’t have been more vulnerable. Some monster had taken advantage of him, but who? Who could have had the opportunity? Who would have possibly dared to—

“Taila.” The word was out of his mouth before Dick could stop it. It had to have been her, there was no one else who would have the gall. Talia Al Ghul. Daughter of the Demon. Damian's _mother._ “Does Damian know?”

Part of Dick really hoped not, as selfish as it was. Damian looked up to his parents more than anything, Taila hadn’t been a perfect mum but there had been a point when she was all Damian had. On the other hand, Damian deserved to know the truth. His reaction would only get worse the longer they hid what had happened.

“No. I know I’m not exactly your level of ‘Big Brother’, but I couldn’t do that to the kid.” Jason fumbled with something in his pocket before pulling out a lighter. It was almost fascinating how he clicked the flame on and off, seemingly subconsciously. “Besides, he wouldn’t believe me over Talia, the brat’s not exactly fond of me.”

“You’re wrong. Dami thinks the world of you. He may not show it in the most obvious of ways but he loves you.” Dick laughed softly, “the amount of times he’s gotten into a fight with Bruce on your behalf… You’re a good brother to him, Jay.’

Jason said nothing in return, simply halting his clicking of the lighter, the flame disappearing as if it had never been there in the first place. Dick watched as Jason stood and vanished down the corridor, noting the way he trembled ever so slightly.

It was probably time to go.

“I should probably head out, Jay” Dick yelled, getting to his feet and stretching, the popping of his joints unnaturally loud in the empty room. Today had been exhausting but he was glad he had come.

He must have been tired because he only just caught the bundle of blankets that were hurled towards his face. Jason was smirking at Dick from the doorway and Dick raised a questioning eyebrow at him. 

“Stay. It’s late and this isn’t exactly the good side of town.” 

“Is there a good side of town?” Dick asked, placing the blankets down anyway. He would stay— if not for the fact he was exhausted and felt dead on his feet but because Jason had actually asked him to stay. Normally, the invitation to stay was implied by whether or not Jason had actually kicked him out, but this time… this time he had asked, so Dick would stay the night.

“Thanks, Jay. For listening that is and… And for telling me,” Dick just about smiled at his little brother as he settled down on the sofa.

Jason heaved a sigh, leaning on the doorframe, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Night, Dickie,” He murmured, offering a barely-there smile. Flicking the lights off, Jason headed down the corridor that presumably led to his bedroom.

For a moment it was quiet— Peaceful. The soft growl of car engines could be heard in the distance, an obscured voice echoing from the streets below. There was a tune to it all, a melody and a bizarre sense of security. A blanket wrapped around him tightly, Dick found himself filled with a sense of safety. He could work this out, Jason didn’t hate him, Jason _understood._ And that was an awful thing in itself but it meant Dick wasn’t as alone as he had thought.

Things might be alright.

With the darkness surrounding him, Dick found himself whispering into the empty room:

“Night, Little Wing”

  
  


——

  
  


He’d snuck out early the next morning, not wanting to still be there when Jason awoke, in fear that he might want a repeat of their previous conversation. While it had helped to get some things off his mind and get a brutally honest outsider's opinion, it had drained Dick emotionally. He needed time before he could even consider working through the things in his head.

He just needed time.

A week went by with little to no incidents. Patrols were filled with the usual Blüdhaven crimes, mainly muggings and low level drug deals. Dick still hadn’t worked up the energy to reach out to anyone, especially not Bruce or Tim. 

Tim had messaged him a couple of days after he’d gotten back to Blüdhaven, letting Dick know that he had spoken to Jason and understood Dick just needed some space right now but to visit soon because he and Damian missed him. (Although Damian was too stubborn to outwardly admit it.) 

Admittedly, that had made Dick feel a little guilty. Jason and Tim, as much as Dick hated it, were old enough to understand when Dick got how he did. They could weather his rough patches because when it came to bad moods the two of them gave as good as they got. The three of them weren’t exactly the pinnacle of good mental health; throw Bruce into the mix and it was easy to understand why. Damian, on the other hand, was just a kid. Did he have his issues? No doubt about it, but that was a given when you were raised by the League of Assassins. He struggled to grasp other people's problems. When you’re raised being told that showing emotion, showing _vulnerability_ was a sign of weakness, you're not exactly going to understand depression or PTSD or eating disorders. (Not that any of those applied to Dick, of course. Tim and Jason however…) So with Dick behaving like he was…

Well Damian didn’t need that. It wasn’t fair for Dick to put him through all this, ignoring him and making everyone worry. Dick was meant to be a role model for the kid and he took that job seriously, he always had from the day he had had to put on that goddamn cowl. As much as he’d hated the burden that came with being Batman, Damian had made it worthwhile. Dick loved the kid, well and truly. There had been a point where Dick had seriously considered not giving Damian back, simply packing up and taking Damian with him so the two of them could continue working together. Considered playing _father._ In the end he had decided that he was too young to have a kid, too scared to mess up, too inexperienced. He had convinced himself he’d made the right call. Damian needed stability and as much as the idea of Damian sitting at the manor going over all the reasons as to why Dick was ignoring him— maybe even blaming himself— that was still better than him seeing Dick in his current sorry state. Seeing how he was barely conscious, drifting through life on autopilot, how he barely kept himself from getting injured on patrol, how he barely tended to his wounds when he did get hurt. Barely washed and fed himself, barely brushed his teeth in the morning, barely remembered to drink. 

Anything was better than Damian seeing Dick’s half-assed attempt at living.

He really should have known better than to go on patrol with thoughts like that souring his mind. He was distracted, thoughts whirring around at a hundred miles per hour. But the idea of being cooped up in his shitty apartment, alone, with only his even shittier thoughts to keep him company made his skin crawl. Restless energy flowed through him, he wanted to do everything and anything and therefore could only do nothing. He needed company, just not the type that was going to make him talk about his feelings and well, petty criminals weren’t exactly big on the whole talking shtick.

So he had headed out on patrol, feeling more awake than he had in months, perhaps a bit too awake. It was like someone had turned up the quality of a video until everything looked a little too sharp, the colours a little too bright, noises a little too loud. It was near impossible to focus on dodging punches when the sound of a dog barking a few streets away was ringing in his ears. It’s hard to notice the other two men lurking in the shadows when the glint of the streetlights on the wet pavements is so blinding. He should have noticed when one of the four men he was fighting pulled out a knife but the exhilaration of fists flying muffled his senses.

He didn’t notice the sounds of gunshot accompanied by the heavy thuds as the thugs bodies hit the dirty ground, too distracted by the feeling of warm blood seeping out of his side and friendly darkness consuming his mind.

____

“You awake Little Bird?’’

Head ringing, Dick slowly cracked open his eyes, the bright lights causing searing pain, prompting him to scrunch them shut again, letting out a groggy groan.

“Too bright,” Dick tried to say, but discovered getting his mouth to work was incredibly difficult, his words coming out heavily slurred.

Dick was pretty sure he heard someone mutter something along the lines of “Don't get concussed then,” but he couldn’t be sure. Regardless, when he attempted to open his eyes for a second time, squinting so he didn’t overwhelm himself again, he discovered the lights had been dimmed significantly. Taking a few moments to orientate himself, Dick found himself staring up at a clean, white, ceiling— a ceiling that notably lacked the weird yellow tint and questionable stains his apartment one had, a ceiling that was far too low down to belong to any room in the manor and considering the lack of bats, it didn’t belong to the cave either. A ceiling, however, that was familiar. 

Before Dick could even think about moving, strong arms adjusted him so he was comfortably sat up, pillows tucked behind him for support.

“Drink.” The voice was firm as calloused hands pressed the rim of a glass to Dick’s lips, batting away Dick’s own hands when he tried to hold the glass himself.

The cold water was refreshing. Dick hadn’t been doing a very good job at staying hydrated as of late and the way the liquid soothed his parched throat was heavenly.

Feeling far more awake and alert, Dick decided some answers were in order.

“Why did you bring me here, Slade?”

Slade Wilson, also known as Deathstroke the Terminator, world renowned mercenary. Nightwing’s occasional enemy and far too frequent guardian angel. 

Slade was a bad person— admittedly not the worst person out there and definitely not the worst Dick’s ever fought, but still not good. He killed people, he got _paid_ to kill people, it was how the man made a living. Slade had a code, had morals he never strayed from and most of the people that died by his hands (or more commonly: bullets) had it coming. He was even willing to team up with the “good guys” if that was what benefited him. It placed him snugly in the gray area of Batman's “Black and White” outlook on life.

Dick didn’t kill; he hadn't killed as a cop and he didn’t kill as Nightwing. Batman had taught him to stay firmly in the white, anything less made them just as bad as the criminals they fought and, well, Batman said ‘Jump’, Robin replied ‘How high?’. That particular mindset had been deeply ingrained in Dick when he was a child and even though he was now grown it was a habit too hard to break. Despite all that the two had created an unlikely friendship. One that Dick’s family would most certainly _not_ approve of.

So, he kept secrets. What Batman, what _Bruce_ didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him. Dick knew he let people down, knew that he had failed Batman countless times and he would do anything to keep Bruce from being disappointed in him. If he had to withhold the truth, maybe that was just for the best? Batman didn’t need to know about Tarantula and Mirage and he didn’t need to know about the weird thing Dick had with Slade. Maybe it could be seen as cowardice or maybe it could simply be considered self preservation. Bruce found reason to be annoyed with him without Dick giving him more.

“You’ve been doing it again, kid,” Slade replied, placing the cup on the bedside table and taking a seat next to the bed. 

“Cut the crap Slade, quit being cryptic. I thought you were on a job over in Europe,” Dick snapped, groaning as a sharp pain spiked in his side.

Right. He got stabbed. Shit.

“Did you kill them?” It was a question Dick hadn’t had to ask Slade in a while. The pair had come to a reluctant agreement: Slade could work in Blüdhaven as long as no one wound up dead and Nightwing would turn a blind eye. So far Slade had kept to the terms of the agreement— he was well known for being a man of his word. Though Dick had to admit, the last couple of months his attention hadn’t exactly been focused on Blüdhaven so if Slade _had_ been causing trouble, Dick wouldn’t be that surprised he hadn’t heard about it.

“They didn’t leave me much choice,” Slade replied gruffly, a tone which suggested he was steeling for an argument. 

“There’s always a choice, Slade!” Dick yelled, anger flaring at Slade’s disregard.

“The options were either you died or they died. You know what I’ll choose when faced with that, Kid.” 

“I’m not worth it.”

Slade scoffed at that, not pandering to Dick’s bullshit for a second.

“There’s a helluva lot of people who would say others, Birdy. You know that, quit wallowing.”

“I mean it, Slade. I’m- I’m poison. I ruin everything. Everyone.” Dick’s voice was quiet and miserable. He wasn’t trying to drown himself in self pity, he just needed Slade to understand. Needed him to understand that Dick was a hopeless case and he should just give up on whatever it was he was trying to achieve by being nice to Dick. 

“If you’re talking about that girl you were helping— What was her name? Spider-girl?”

“Tarantula.”

Slade grunted in response. “She’s not worth it. You did your best, but she made her choice.”

“But I let her kill him! I stepped out of the way and just let her shoot him!” Dick protested. After his talk with Jason, Dick had been trying hard to stop blaming himself for everything, but sometimes keeping the guilt at bay was just too exhausting.

“Kid, you didn’t let her do anything. She would have shot him regardless, it was simply a matter of if she'd have to shoot through you to do so.”

“And how would you know? You weren’t there, Slade! You don’t know her, you don't know what she would have done!” Dick shouted, ignoring the pain it caused him out of pure spite. Jason often got stereotyped as the angry, hot-head, but Dick was angry first. Dick had been angry for longer, everyone just ignored it because it didn’t fit with their idea of him. Slade let him be angry, let him yell and didn’t just dismiss him as being overly emotional like Batman had a habit of doing.

Slade just stared at Dick, looking thoroughly unaffected by Dick’s outburst. Dick supposed it must be easy to not be bothered by people yelling when you're more often than not the biggest threat in the room. Dick couldn't help but be envious of that.

“You finished? Good. CCTV footage. Unlike you to not cover your tracks. But then, not sure it's fair to hold that against you considering the state you were in afterwards.”

Dick felt as if Slade had just shot him. How could Slade know? Jason wouldn’t have told him, Dick was sure. As far as Dick knew Slade and Jason only crossed paths on the odd occasion and while they didn’t hate each other they definitely weren't what you would consider friends. 

How then? 

CCTV. Dick hadn't even considered checking for it and if there had been cameras where Catalina shot Desmond then why wouldn’t there be cameras on the roof too? Which meant… which meant there was evidence of what happened, actual video proof that people could see. The thought terrified him. 

“I destroyed the footage, didn’t reckon you wanted that out there where people could find it.” Slade assured Dick, not that it brought much comfort. At least no one else would stumble upon it because Dick had been sloppy.

“You watched all of it.” It wasn’t a question, Dick knew Slade had. Slade Wilson did not do half-assed information, he would find out the full story, even if it was horrific.

“I did. It wasn’t your fault, Kid. Any of it.” Slade sounded so firm, so sure that Dick couldn’t shove down the emotions welling up in his throat or stop the way his bottom lip trembled. “You’re a mess, Little Bird.”

“Why are you here Slade? You were on a job, I know you were.” Dick asked quietly, voice breaking ever so slightly. 

“Your brother called. Said you were running yourself ragged, wouldn’t talk to any of the family. He was worried you were going to get yourself killed or save the criminals the trouble and do it yourself.”

“Which brother?” Dick couldn’t bring himself to dismiss what Slade himself, couldn't assure him that Dick would never do something so foolish. He wasn’t in the mood for lying— at least not convincingly.

“The smart-ass one,” Slade chuckled. “The one smart enough to work out how to get in contact with me.”

“Tim. It was Tim.”

For a moment Dick couldn’t help but feel angry at Tim for not just coming to him first, but then he had tried. How many missed calls and messages did he have from Tim? How many opportunities had Tim given him to talk? Dick had isolated himself and it seemed Tim had had enough. Dick couldn't blame his baby brother for caring. 

“Have you been taking your medication?” And this was the part of Slade that Dick hated and appreciated. The no nonsense part that is straight to the point. Dick’s brothers had a habit of dancing around problems, never pushing an issue too far. Slade did not have this problem.

“I lost everything when Blockbuster blew up my apartment building.” It still hurt to think about. All those people, all those innocent lives. 

“And it was so hard to get another prescription? Call a psychiatrist?” Slade asked, tone unamused. 

“I was busy!” Dick was yelling again, his defence rising quickly.

Slade once again didn’t rise to the bait, fixing Dick with a stern glare.

“You tear those stitches I’ll make sure you bloody feel it when I redo them.” Slade warned, voice low and dangerous. “You’re fucked in the head, kid, through no fault of your own. Those pills keep you alive, you’re smart enough to know that. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for your brothers.”

“Don’t you use my brothers against me!”

“Well someone has to. Those boys need you. You think any of them would have lasted this long with just the big ole Bat for emotional support?”

“Haven’t I been through enough? Haven’t I supported them enough?”

It was so selfish. He was so, so selfish. He loved his brothers, wanted to help them, wanted the best thing for them. But perhaps Dick being gone _was_ the best thing for them. 

“Go take a shower, kid.” Slade said, quiet but firm. “You could do with one.”

And wasn’t that just so like Slade? Never one to engage when he doesn’t have to. Always believing he’s right. Normally actually being right too. 

The shower did make Dick feel better, though he was reluctant to admit, if only as not to boost Slade's ego. By the time he’d dried off and put on some comfy clothes, (they used to be Slades so Dick had been forced to roll the sleeves and legs multiple times) Slade had moved to the kitchen and was in the middle of making some kind of herbal tea.

“I forget how old you are sometimes and then you go and remind me by making old people drinks.” Dick teased, sliding into one of the chairs at the tiny table. 

“I forget why I’m nice to you when all you do is call me old.” Slade shot back, placing a mug and painkillers in front of Dick before sliding in the chair opposite him. “And herbal teas have many benefits to your health.”

“That’s exactly what an old person would say!” Dick smiled, sipping the drink anyway. It was definitely one of the nicer teas Slade had made him drink when injured, kinda fruity but not too sweet. “How old are you anyway? I know you’re older than you look.”

“Isn’t it considered rude to ask a person's age?”

“Pretty sure that’s only meant to apply to women.” 

“And here I thought your generation was meant to be less stereotypical.”

“That old, huh?”

“You’re a nuisance, Richard.”

“Yet you still like me.”

“Drink your tea,” Slade grumbled, which Dick interpreted to be an agreement.

They sat in silence, peacefully drinking their respective teas. Dick couldn’t help wondering what the plan was. Where did he go from here? There was no way Slade would let him leave until he decided Dick’s mental health was up to par.

Who knew if that would ever happen?

Dick couldn’t stay here— he had too many things to do and Slade should have work anyway. 

“If you try to run, you won’t get past the kitchen door.” Slade said, not even bothering to look in Dick’s direction.

“I wasn’t going to run!” Dick snapped, feeling incredibly caught out. Sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if the serum Slade was injected with gave him some kind of mind reading abilities along with the super strength and healing. Or maybe Dick was just _that_ predictable.

“For someone trained by the bat, you’d think you’d be better at lying.” Slade drawled, raising an eyebrow mockingly.

“I’m injured, you’re not allowed to be mean.”

Slade just grunted in response, taking another sip of his drink and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“I can’t stay here Slade. I’ve got things to do.”

“Things like calling your brothers so they stop interrupting my work and make me fly all the way over here to prevent you from getting yourself killed?”

“You would have come regardless of how far away you were.”

It had taken Dick a long time to realise that. Slade had proven that Dick came before work time and time again— Dick didn’t really understand why and he had a suspicion Slade didn’t either. However it worked in his favour more often than not like when he screwed up enough to get _stabbed_ for example.

“Call a psychiatrist. Call your brothers. Get back on your meds. Prove to me I won’t end up finding you dead in your apartment because you couldn’t take care of yourself. Then you can go.” 

“It’s not that simple!” Dick protested. His life has been turned upside down, he’d lost his home, Catalina had killed Desmond, he’d left his job— there was no quick fix for that. Slade had to know that, he had to understand that Dick couldn’t get better, he was broken, unfixable, poison. 

“Maybe not but it’s a start, kid”

“I can’t keep doing this Slade.”

“Life ain’t easy, Kid. I know that, I’ve lived long enough. Our lifestyle isn’t designed to make us happy. But all those thoughts in your head, would they be so hard to manage if you were on your medication? You seem to forget how bad you get each time you decide to do things on your own.” Slade was looking right at Dick, who was maintaining eye contact through sheer determination even though he’d rather the floor just open up and swallow him whole. There was the same tired look in Slade’s eyes that Jason’s had had when Dick had visited. 

And then Dick came to the awful realisation that he was the cause of it. That exhaustion, that worry, it was because of _him._ Because he hadn’t been taking care of himself and everyone around him had been running themselves ragged to make sure he didn’t wind up dead. Tim had resorted to calling _Deathstroke the Terminator,_ a man who had attacked them all multiple times, a man who most certainly could not be called a hero, because he was so desperate to make sure Dick was okay. And he wasn’t. Dick wasn’t okay in the slightest because he’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve to get better.

But just because he didn’t deserve to get better didn’t mean everyone else had to suffer.

“I don’t think I can get better by myself.” Dick admitted quietly, a sense of defeat washing over him.

“You think I’d leave Europe to come to this shithole city if I thought you could?”

“Hey at least it’s not Gotham!” Dick argued.

Okay, he could do this. For his family’s sake. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
